You can’t fool us. Just like you couldn’t fool your mom in sixth grade, sneaking into the kitchen at two a.m., pilfering a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the pantry to eat in front of the TV while you watched the Sham Wow! infomercial for the third school night in a row. We aren’t going to ground you though, and we won’t tell your mom. Why? Because we’re right alongside you as fully grown adults eating cold grocery store fried chicken at midnight while we pretend not to cry watching Steven Universe on our second-hand couches. We’re The Midnight Snack, and we eat our feelings just like everyone else. So open your pantries, raid your fridges, empty that one pillowcase full of candy from your kid’s last Trick-or-Treat sesh, and send us all the food writing our nutrient-deficient digestive systems can handle. Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, Ingredient Lists, Recipes, Nutritional Information: we want it all. Just don’t use the microwave—you’ll wake up Dad.
by Alexandra Servey
the pan the sizzle the juicy-
ness something about the color golden
from the butter and the
curry and the heat something
about the meat over-seasoned
all the spices rubbed into thighs
how tender the chicken when
you render the fat
by Jeff Bender
I sat on the linoleum, thirty-three years after my last Peanut Butter Cup. I tasted and saw that the Lord is good.
Read Moreby Karina Guardiola-Lopez
I see my father, my grandparents, all the pets
I have buried in the backyard
the milk has gone sour
the crumbs are all gone
these shoes are too tight
by Angela Townsend
I sat on the linoleum, thirty-three years after my last Peanut Butter Cup. I tasted and saw that the Lord is good.
Read Moreby Diane Choplin
Safely perched on her hip, the birds were no longer menacing. They crowded around the box, comically losing their heads to its depth. Mom was smiling, taking it all in. I wasn’t sure how to feel.
Read Moreby Eme Celis
folded over and rolled into flaky layers/rested overnight/and shaped into the moon
Read Moreby Nathaniel Santiago
There is intimacy in one big plate and a large spoon dug into a steamy mountain of fried rice.
Read Moreby Gabriella Navas
She doesn’t know how to explain where she’s been. She doesn’t know how to say, I feel most like a woman when I do things that make men hate me.
Read Moreby Mira Dessy
Sure enough, they cooked properly, and they peeled easily. Each one of them had a smooth, unblemished outer surface.
Read Moreby Callie S. Blackstone
you told me to come home,
said you had cooked mad
before and would again,
that it wasn’t worth wasting
by Lexi Norjka
You dispose of your half-eaten tray and gather your bag, mumbling farewell to the guy behind the counter, who looks utterly relieved by your departure and wheels out his mop and bucket before you’re even out the door.
Read Moreby Karen Kwasny
Rocks in a stream bed, I think.
Pebbles, shells, eggs.
One by one until the loaves are gone,
the baking dish full.
by Michelle DeLiso
In their lilliputian kitchen, Papa ate whatever Nana served, including Swansons. He dined stoically, a strong-jawed man with a fork.
Read Moreby Natasha Zarin
But almost winning is sometimes better—daydreaming about what I would do differently next time, and creating foolproof plans in my mind to ensure glorious victories against my opponents for the next weekend.
Read Moreby Lydia Prendergast
for the citrus—
that my mother keeps in the chilled barrel—
giggling in desperate hope for the mere noise that even cacophony
by Mugdha Joshi (aka thefeministwriterwhogoesmeh)
You know that it’s good food you’re eating when it has a wonderful fulfilling quality and there is a lingering feeling on your taste buds, making you long for more. I could go on and on about how good good food actually is, but then I’d be missing the point.
Read Moreby Ann Graham
You tug and drag, scratching the floor, the priceless antique out onto your balcony. Electrified, you raise the lid to let loose the children’s sobbing, begging for their mothers.
Read Moreby Colleen Maynard
I twist off a ripe fig from the tree leaning against the house.
It loosens easily, spittles
a white foam on my hand. Another twist.
by Caroline Misner
I was powdered with dust, a gritty gauze, that clung
to my sunburnt shoulders and wormed into the strands
of my hair and crusted my face, tacky with sweat
and syrupy streaks of juice.
